


Plucking Petals

by Mad_Merry



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, inFAMOUS: Second Son
Genre: Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Floral Shop, Fluff and Humor, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-22
Updated: 2019-02-22
Packaged: 2019-11-03 15:09:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17880077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mad_Merry/pseuds/Mad_Merry
Summary: " I love you a bushel and a peck,A bushel and a peck though you make my heart a wreckMake my heart a wreck and you make my life a messMake my life a mess, yes a mess of happiness"





	Plucking Petals

It’s exactly 5:26 A.M when Delsin slips the key into the shop’s backdoor, shoulders hunched against the early morning drizzle and sharp chill of Seattle weather. The inside is cooled from a night without central heating, the artist rubbing his hands vigorously together to harbor some kind of warmth, no matter its brief effect. He knows the darkened interior like the back of his hand after four years of employment, maneuvering around the tables and discarded boxes to carelessly toss the master key into the manager’s office.

The rest may as well be muscle memory; flicking switches until the lobby like area is set in a comforting orange glow, chairs flipped back onto their legs and tables wiped once more for safety. He ties his black apron around his front and middle, the mental checklist shrinking as slowly but surely, the shop starts to warm to life. 

Fetch enters just as he starts up one of the coffee makers, the pink haired punk bleary eyed and still in her brother’s hoodie, barely sparing him a glance as she passes.

“Good morning sunshine,” The taller greets, using one of the shop’s cups to make himself a steaming mug of black coffee. He wasn’t one for the classic route, always more fond himself of a well made mocha, but even for him it was too early to pull all the stops just yet. “When’s the baker coming?” 

“Shoulda been here ten minutes ago,” The fellow opener grumbles, giving an exasperated sigh and turning her back to him in a silent request, hands expertly tying his friend’s apron knot. “Gimme five minutes, he’ll be here or he’s givin’ us a discount on the raisin cinnamon bread.”

“Oh, pulling the Jersey style negotiation?” A light punch to his shoulder, barely there as the woman’s energy still lacks, fitting the still stark darkness outside that’s melting into cool blues.

“You know it.”

Delsin has to admit, he doesn’t mind opening on cool autumn days like this, picking the music for the morning as he sips his fresh (so fresh, the best part of working early) coffee, casual conversations and preparing himself for the inevitable. He enjoys that precious space between the waking world and the sleeping world, sharing a fresh muffin with Fetch right before they flip their sign.

Doesn't mean he’s not tired as shit by seven. The moment the doors are open, those with as deep of a caffeine addiction as anyone in Seattle rush to the doors, lured by the smell of roasting beans and warmed bread, pressed on by early morning commitments, the tragic obligations of the adult world.

“Latte for Adam?” Delsin calls through the shop, not looking twice when another face, another stranger comes forward to take their drink. 

He side steps Fetch as he works, handing her napkins just as, “Hey, D,” leaves her mouth, silencing her swiftly as he begins another coffee. Quick, efficient, and surprisingly clean as the morning melts into the usual rush of pre-work demands. Espressos, mochas and Americanos blurred into one long shift that leaves him feeling drained, but with a tip jar miraculously half full, and starving. 

His leftover Thai is calling his name, alongside a good hot shower; day over with and his duties checked off the list, Eugene coming to take his place for the remainder of the afternoon. 

He’s getting his stuff together when Augustine cuts him off with a far too casual, “Oh, Delsin,” the artist’s shoulders sagging in resignation as he stops in front of the door. It wasn’t that Augustine was a bad boss; she was just...not a good one. She didn’t understand the nuance of owning something as trendy as a coffee place in a constantly changing and shifting city. Seattle rode the never slowing train of fads, and to survive in such a beautiful and volatile area one had to be accepting of change. Brooke understood this, she just failed to actually pay attention. He supposed it was a positive thing; it let him become the equivalent of an assistant manager. His opinion and his input mattered to the woman, even if she fought him on details that inevitably, he won anyway.

It’s why he turns around, jacket already on his shoulders and a pilfered coffee (his third that day, but he’d never beat his brother in caffeine consumption) in his hand.

“Yeah, Brooke?” 

“I know you’re heading out, but I wanted to run something by you.” “Run something by him” usually meant, ‘I’m going to make a decision regarding the shop and this is your single chance to tell me I’m fucking stupid.’ 

“Run it by me, then.” He resigns himself to follow the older woman into the manager’s office, the area small, but well maintained thanks to Brooke’s intense sense of order and organization. That was something he couldn’t fault her for; thanks to her, no order receipt was left out of place. No bill, no rent, not a single thing was ever where it should not be. Unless she’s interviewing the door stays open, and Delsin takes the liberty to lean against the opening. 

“I was looking around online,” Oh god. “And I couldn’t help but notice there may be a possible trend on the rise.” Oh no.

“Uh,” The artist knows he should, by definition be over the moon Augustine is gaining some independence when it comes to doing research. It used to be Delsin’s job, and had been the cause of his first of many pay bumps.  He’d vouched for more modern machines, to expand the menu into something beyond black coffee and espresso. He still remembers their argument about selling pumpkin spice products. Dark days. “Okay. What was it?”

“Businesses, specifically food chains are beginning to place flowers on their tables.” 

“Flowers.” 

“Yes.” 

A sigh, Delsin unable to stop himself from thinking of the budgeting and the extra chore that’s going to add to the list. That’s another delivery guy to call, another set of glass that can break, another thing that looks pretty for a week but then fades quickly. “Brooke, not to be that guy, but that sounds like more work. That’s--you know, that’s another check to cut. Not to mention it’s getting into fall, we’re already gonna have issues with the bakery since it’ll be a rush season--”

“Yes, I know, I see our numbers.  You said yourself, however that small details may appeal to the big picture.” 

“...Yeah, I was talking about a bigger display case. But--”

“I took the liberty of looking up some local florists, if you could take some time in the next couple of days,” He closes his eyes, disappointment heavy in his chest as he kisses his few days off with peace goodbye, “and cross reference their prices, we can see if this is doable.”

“Why do you even ask my opinion if you’ve already got a plan?”

Her smile to some might have been charming, professional and perhaps a little welcoming. To the barista, it was grating after four years of it. Ever patient, ever knowing and too calm for him when it was only noon. “Posterity...mostly, have a good rest of your day.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

 

Delsin grants himself one full morning of rest before he actually starts to look into flower shops. It’s kind of peaceful, the overcast of home allowing him to indulge in staying in bed well past noon, laptop on his legs and Augustine’s list in a smaller window. He eliminates a lot of places from the get-go based on their website, because really? Who’s expected to be treated professionally when their page looks like his old My Space profile? Other places were grocery store chains, mostly specialized in pre made bouquets and selling the same flowers year-round.

It feels like an eternity of writing prices down, crossing over from one company to another before he narrows down his search to one place. It’s at the top of his list, his criteria that’s probably a little bias met. Clean page, minimalist, but oddly colorful with the professionally shot images of flowers and the storefront.

_ Thistle Cheer You Up _ . Charming. A glance at their hours, considering his desire to put on pants and brave the rapidly cooling air of Seattle just to ask about flowers. It’s not that high, but he supposes he may as well do it now and have the last of his time off work free.

The shop is...cute. There really isn’t any other way to describe the white cursive on the large windows, accentuated by carefully striped swirls around the lettering  and hanging pots of what he can guess are ferns. Its presence seems to break away from the gloomy rain of Washington, the ferns a fresh green and seeming to appreciate the weather than wither against it. 

Everything about it gives him story book vibes; something he’d find between a novels’ pages and want to copy into his sketchbook,  right down to the classic  _ open/close _ sign, intricately engraved into dark wood in similar cutesy handwriting. 

A bell jingles above his head when he walks inside, disarmingly cool, but not the nipping chill of the outside. It’s as if the place is a hybrid between classic and modern; the space itself feeling open with ash-gray floors, white painted walls that can hardly be seen behind the plethora of plants and bouquets, all lovingly arranged and organized. String lights hang overhead on the ceiling, fighting against the pale cloudiness of the outdoors. It’s clean yet chaotic, and the barista is curious. Delsin carefully stows his hands in his pockets as he walks, taking in all the green, blues, pinks and reds with admiration and curiosity. 

“Can I help you find something?” The artist almost doesn’t realize he’s passed the front end, turning to meet the eyes of a clearly amused man standing behind the counter. The counter space has also fallen victim to the spreading plants and flowers, small succulents beside the register, the wall behind it the same gray wood of the floors with stringed photos. Some black and white, other’s brighter and cleaner. 

Don’t get him started on the man himself, casually leaning on the faux granite top, chin propped up by his hand. He’s not entirely what Delsin expected to see in the front end of such a cute, well maintained shop, both arms coated in tattoos that climb all the way to where his work shirt conceals the remainder, a pale scar cutting from the top of his lip to the start of his chin. An eyebrow rises when there’s no response from the barista, a patient yet teasing, “Cat got your tongue?” 

“Hi.” Delsin blurts, brain processing what has escaped too late and resulting in a hot flush across his face. 

The man doesn’t bat an eye, a lazy grin crossing his features as he returns the sudden greeting with, “Hey. Can I help you with anything?” 

A multitude of totally inappropriate responses spring to Delsin’s mind faster than he can squash them back, leaving him again silent in front of the stranger in a growing sense of discomfort and awkwardness. Then, with a sharp jolt he clears his throat, standing straighter even as the shop employee lounges easily in front of him. Figures, that Delsin would interact with the cutest guy he’s encountered longer than the demanded two seconds it takes to order a latte entirely by chance.

“Yeah..yeah! Yeah you can, do you guys do flower arrangements?” He admittedly, doesn’t see many flower...things anymore. Besides weddings and other less fun, more formal events. The shop itself seems to be adapting, the charming pots of starter plants such as succulents and aloes, all in popularity thanks to the aesthetic and ease.

“Depends,” Mr. ‘Are those ear piercings and where have you been all my life’ starts, finally pushing off the counter to give the barista his full attention. It’s stupid and cliche, but the guy’s eyes are pretty and warm, and he’s somehow still smiling in the face of customer service, something Delsin still struggles with. “You just askin’, or do you have an event you’re needing a theme for?” 

“Bit of both, I’m looking for table arrangements. About twelve?” 

“Identical?” 

“Yeah, it’s for a business.” A sound of understanding escapes Mr. tattoo, moving away from the counter fully to open a drawer on the other side, and it takes Delsin a solid five seconds to realize that the counter is a converted old time desk, and something about that is as intensely intriguing as the rest of the little store. A card falls into the artist’s line of sight, a pen following that taps against lists of items and prices. 

“Depending on the season and size, we’ve got some things that might work. Twelve isn’t too big of an order, but are you looking to get them any particular date?” 

No. Augustine gave him literally nothing to work with besides “this is my bidding! Go find me some flowers.” Which is...supremely frustrating. 

“It’s...I don’t have instructions yet so,” This sound is a bit more patient, going low at the end as Mr. Tattoo seems to rest back onto his elbows. 

“Impulsive boss?” It’s such a sudden question, Delsin peering up from the list of in-season plants and hesitating, settling on doing that forced retail laugh purely out of reflex. That was right on the nose wasn’t it? Augustine, for all her order and demands for minimalism, was an impulsive woman. She got the shop on a whim, hired Delsin in a desperate move to gain some appeal, had dragged him down a lot of halls to follow her misguided desires to stay in business.

“You could say that. Why?”

“You’re not the first employee to be sent in here for aesthetic improvements.” The tone is almost lazy, head tipping to the side, as if this guy didn’t have a single care in the world, because he was surrounded by flowers and how are you stressed like that? Then, his eyes seem to go sharp, studying Delsin intently. “Definitely the first without very specific instructions, though.” Something about that sentence tells him this guy’s job sometimes is literally, just putting flowers together that people have already adamantly insisted they wanted. And he knows somewhere in his head that he should probably call Brooke. Tell her he found a place that wasn’t in a goddamn grocery store, and let her pick. Let her control and let her boss him around some more.

But also fuck that.

“Well, maybe I’d like some trusted input. You are an expert, aren’t you?” That earns a laugh that settles a warm shiver over Delsin, Mr. tattoo’s arms crossing over his chest as he peers at the paper. 

“Expert is generous.” A familiar form of the other’s bravado appears, mirror’s the man’s easy smile and very purposely sets his hands on the counter. 

“You know more than I do, obviously.” Wow. Was he really attempting flirting over flower arrangements? The worst part is, he can’t tell if the guy is into it or not, or just  _ like that  _ when his head shifts and tilts the other way, eyes on the artist in a muted interest. There’s an air that pushes towards intimidating around the man, all full sleeve tattoos and stud piercings, yet his apron kinda...ruins that. It’s black, go fucking figure, but it has flowers and leaves embroidered around the edges.. 

“I’ll see what I can do for you.” 

  
  


Delsin proudly sets a simple, rectangular vase on the table of Augustine’s desk, the redhead looking up perplexed as she takes in the delicate arrangement. White daisies, orange spray roses, and yellow miniature carnations make up something almost bubbly and sweet. Hell that’s what it was  _ called _ , Mr. tattoo, who’s name Delsin had quickly learned was Desmond, had said it in such a way the barista definitely did not feel it in his chest and spine. A steady rise of goosebumps as he’d watched the man expertly and smoothly snipped tips and leaves of a “trial” bouquet, the colors popping against the white background of the shop.

_ “Your order’s already in, but I’ll give you a cancellation period in case.”  _

_ “What, why?” He’d shrugged, vague and careless as he’d even gone and tied a ribbon around the vase in quick and easy movements.  _

_ “Why would I charge you for somethin’ you might get bitched at for?” _

  
  


“What is this?”

“This,” He starts with a prideful flourish, hand pointed to the delicate set of flowers he’d so carefully and gently placed in his car, oddly eager to show his boss. He’d even come on his day off, come on...also because he wanted a muffin. Leave him alone, “Is an example of the arrangement.”

“You ordered them already?” There’s more astonishment in her voice than anything negative, which Delsin readily jumps onto, nodding his head in a quick jerk. 

“I have. Twelve sets, not including this gem here.” Okay, so he was being a little cocky about this, but after spending even just a half hour with Desmond, he’d gathered the guy knew what he was doing. He answered questions surprisingly easily, had good explanations and made sure to always tell Delsin what he was being charged. For someone who in the very beginning gave a vibe of absolutely not caring, the employee fired off information almost flawlessly, and worked at the same pace. It really had been amazing to watch him trim and manage the flowers, witness him turn plants, (pretty plants, but plants nonetheless) into something that people would admire. In turn, Delsin was confident Augustine was going to like it.

“And what establishment did you opt to order from?” Uh oh, big words. This meant she was thinking of budget, which Delsin is grateful for, but at the same time this was the breaking point.

“Thistle cheer you up. Real small place downtown.”

“And how was their pricing?” 

“Better than the place in Lantern. First customers get a discount, but even without that it’s in the budget. I checked this morning.” 

Desmond really had been thorough in everything, even with the cancelation period, he’d told Delsin what the price was going to be, to let him back out before they even started the work.

_ “And a percentage discount, for our first timers.” He’d said as he delicately set the finished product back onto the counter, sliding a business card alongside it and...a small bundle of flowers. _

_ “What are those for?” The barista had asked, eyes peering over to the other curiously.  _

_ “These,” He’d started, again easily and smoothly tying a small white ribbon around the stems, “are wallflowers. They’re for you. No charge.”  _

_ Another wave of red hits Delsin’s face as he carefully takes them from the florist, flattery and confusion mixing together until he feels like he did when he first got his job. When cute people had still been cute people, and he’d get flustered making their drinks. “Oh, uh. Thank you, what for?”  _

_ “First time customers always get them, if they’re in season.” The other straightens once more, hands brace against the stained wood of the desk, eyes intent and a startling light brown. “They have a meaning. Welcome.”  _

Criminy. 

“Well,” Augustine sighs, gently runs a finger over one of the petals, Delsin having spent too much time around her to know this was the closest she was,going to get to telling him he was right. “Confirm the order. Post-haste.” 

“Aye, aye, Cap’n.” 

  
  


“I went ahead and ordered for you,” Reggie greets the moment Delsin sits down, looking out of place at the “urban” theme restaurant in his black work pants and black framed glasses. The dope probably forgot to get more contacts again.

“Have I ever told you you’re an angel Reg?” The older smiles, shaking his head in that constant mix of affection and exasperation.

“No, but there’s a first for everything.” Lunch with his brother was something he could admit he looked forward to; Reggie was his sanity check in the crazy world of food service, a moment to breathe, to eat something besides shitty premade sandwiches and have a conversation that didn’t revolve on explaining they don’t do frappuccinos. Even if--no, especially-- that the first ten minutes is in comfortable silence.

“How was work?” The question finally comes when he quits inhaling his food like a dying man, always impressed with how well his older sibling knows what he likes and doesn’t like. He even remembered to request no onion.

“Same as usual. Coffee here, muffin there, that one angry white lady that doesn’t seem to understand what soy milk is.” Reggie coughs into his glass when he laughs, covering his mouth with the back of his hand. “How’s the big scary teaching job? You getting the hang of it?”

“More or less. A lot different than teaching back home.” 

“Course it’s different, these kids don’t think you’re cool.”

“Shut up,” Reggie scolds, his tone not at all fitting the way he rolls his eyes, his smile present and steady. He was happy, and that was something Delsin would never be able to  _ not  _ appreciate. It’d taken a lot of persistence to get Reggie to go back to school, even more to let go of home and find a job that paid better when he finally breached the wall of a T.A, and one more hard push to get him to move out into the city with the barista. Not  _ with  _ him of course, because--

“How’s Lucy doing?” The way his smile goes soft and love struck is expected, the older peering down at the remnants of his lunch in a hint of sheepishness.

“She’s good. Showing off the ring to anyone that’ll look. Busy, though.” 

Lucy had been an unexpected positive; a psychology major, in a few of his brother’s communication courses. They partnered often in projects because it was a familiar face, and from what he’d heard in those college days, they got along really well, and his brother had been egging towards a crush for a while. They’d lost touch when Reggie had dropped out, maybe a bit of his brother being a small scale martyr, isolating himself and putting all of his attention into Delsin.

They reconnected by chance at some random bar his brother’s friends had dragged him to, and the rest was history. Delsin was pretty sure he’d get cavities from them one day.

“Planning going okay?” A low suffering sigh this time, and the barista has to snort past his fries. 

“Her mom’s making everything difficult. I swear, Betty’s about to suplex her.”

“I’d pay real money to say that.”

“You and me both.” There’s quiet after that, just appreciating Reggie’s easy company, taking in the sounds of cars passing and the muted chatter of other cafe patrons. Replacing the sound of hissing steam and dribbling coffee out of his mind. Just for a little while. It gives him time to empty his head a bit, mindlessly chew his overpriced patty melt and watch the way his brother unconsciously nudges his glasses back up with his knuckles, all the small details in life that he wants to draw and admire.

He thinks of the little flowers now in his kitchen, his mad scramble to find something to put them in and keep them alive. Of the bouquets now tastefully placed on all their dark stained tables and embroidered flowers that did nothing to mute an intriguing smile. 

Reggie has to get back to the school once they’re done eating, pulling the younger Rowe in a bear hug that feels like home, and tentative plans to have dinner, the three of them.

“And remember to RSVP!” He’d called from his car, pointing a finger as the younger started walking to his own car. “You’re my best man, after all.”

“I’ll get it in tonight, scout’s honor!” 

He doesn’t, but he swears he’ll do it tomorrow.

 

Things get busy exactly when Delsin expected them to. October came like a freight train, and though they don’t get the same traffic as other certain cafes, they still sell pumpkin spice products at a limited amount. People clamor for it, and it’s one of the rare business choices the barista made that Augustine had admitted were one of his best. It comes at a price; the shop is already busy in the mornings, but it goes bananas during late fall, he and the usual crew for those hours working what feels like triple time to keep up. It’s so busy, Delsin has to make all of their orders through phone while he’s still working, cell phone jammed as close to his ear as he can get it while he starts the milk steamer.

He can’t quell his little ball of excitement when he gets to Thistle. Only to have it squashed when Desmond isn’t the one who answers. 

“Thistle Cheer you Up. This is Shaun speaking.”  Disappointment is heavy in his stomach, something he has to work through when a woman stares at him impatiently for her cappuccino.

“Uh. Hi.” 

“Hello. Can I help you?” There was an odd lilt to the man’s voice that Delsin couldn’t place over all the noise, setting the woman’s drink down for her and giving a short nod before he starts the second. God, his neck is going to kill him after all of this.

“This is Delsin, I put in an order a week ago for new arrangements, but I’m kind of swamped right now. Is there any chance you guys do delivery?” He can’t leave, he’s got more coffee beans coming in later today, and if he misses them the delivery guy is going to get pissy again. After that, he needs to get more cream for the dispensers, and the baker is fighting him on how much lemon coffee cake to give him since he’d staked a claim on their pumpkin muffins.

“ _ Today _ ? I’m sorry, that’s too last minute, they’re not ready for a shipment.” 

The urge to whine is right there, almost coming out as a petulant,  _ Come  _ **_on_ ** _ man _ !

“Please,” He tries instead, almost bumps into Eugene with a tray of used cups and mouths an apology, “I have to get them today, but I also have like six other things to do today.”

“Again, no sir, our delivery schedule is already up--” A shuffle, the call a little more muffled, “What? What do you mean  _ you’ll  _ go? Well, yes I’m here but that doesn’t mean you go willy nilly!” More silence, then an annoyed huff as the man comes back onto the phone. “Would three o’clock work?”

Hallelujah. “Yes! Thank you, oh my god. I’ll pay extra, I don’t care.”

“Yes, yes you’re welcome. Have a good day.”

 

“Oh, no way.” The barista lets it escape as soon as he sees who steps out of the pick up truck, the back covered to make it look more like a van and protect the delicate petals of precious cargo.

Desmond laughs, a black hoodie over his work uniform, those little colorful flowers peeking out when he moves to unlatch the bed door. “Surprised?” 

“Uh,  _ yeah _ , do you just do everything over there?” He shoves his hands in his own jacket, pulling his hood up against the more steady trickles of rain that Seattle’s known for in October. It’s gone from pleasantly cool to icy in a few weeks flat, small shivers shaking the barista as his jeans fail to protect him against it. The rush has finally died at the humble cafe, Eugene and Fetch inside recovering and cleaning while Delsin takes care of replenishing their...everything.

“Pretty much. Shaun’s not in the shop often besides to take care of some bills.” 

“He the owner?” 

“Yeah, not much else. He’s cool though, don’t take him to heart too much.”

The first arrangement makes its appearance, and the barista is reminded of the other’s skill. He’d taken Delsin's requests and ran with them; white anemones with black centers, black dahlias, surprise and delight when he sees more mini  red carnations to act as a vibrant splash of color. It all comes together with a few well placed stems, all gathered into a deep orange, rounded vase. 

All his smart ass comments about this Shaun go out the window, wonder and excitement taking hold of him instead, cautiously taking the first of the twelve. 

“Holy shit, dude.” 

“You like it?” 

“Do I like it?! Desmond, I literally just gave you colors and a theme, this thing is incredible!” If he weren’t so focused on the arrangement itself, he’d see the barely there flush that covers the floursists face, who quickly turns around to start pulling the remainder of the carefully maneuvered plants out. “Thank you, for this. And for coming out to bring them.” 

“It’s not a big deal.” Desmond has two of the potted bouquets in his hand, the barista leading him into the back, where their bags of coffee beans and boxes of filters lie all over the place. 

“A coffee shop?”

“Oh, yeah. Forgot to mention that part huh?” He motions for the florist to set the plants down on the free space in the back area, knowing he’ll have to wait for the dead hours of the work day to set them out. Still, his enthusiasm is there in buzzing energy under his skin, halloween just around the corner. He’d decided to break from Augustine again with this, the woman having already forgotten about her half baked plan to use flowers on the regular. As long as she didn’t give him shit for still including it in their budget, he could care less if she wasn’t involved with it. 

Delsin had seen it as an opportunity to do something a little more fun for the shop, beyond the decorations he and the other long time employees put up for the hell of it.  Halloween was a favorite for all of the associates, a good time as they set out false pumpkins and sometimes, candy for any kids. The flowers had been a whim of his own, one Desmond had taken it without a bat of an eye. 

They unload the remainder of the flowers, finding spots for them to sit until Delsin has a chance to subtly set all the new pots on the tables. They talk, and joke, and Desmond’s funny as hell in a surprisingly dry, straightforward way. He has a cute laugh, softer than Delsin would expect from someone with such an air of confidence around them. But he just likes knowing that his clumsy attempts at being his usual joking self didn’t fall flat on the floor, pointedly ignoring his coworkers puzzled stares. 

“Thank you, seriously.” He says to the florist, standing by the driver’s side of the pick-up truck with the same cursive logo on the side. Fetch and Eugene had helped him set out all the new flowers, and in return Desmond had taken the old vases off their hands to be washed and reused. “You really didn’t have to come out here yourself.” 

“Ah, Shaun can take the reigns for a few hours. Wouldn’t kill ‘im. I wanted to.” The tattoo’d male leans against the truck, hands in his jacket pockets and looking in no rush to go anywhere just yet. “Besides, you need your bouquets, don’t you?”

“ _ Desperately _ .” He gets that soft laugh again, can’t help but smile in return as Desmond attempts to urge a grin back into something not so big. The guy really was cute, easy to talk to in only their second interaction, but easy nonetheless. The rain had lessened to a mist, and the mix of water and humidity makes the hair on the other’s head curl and frizz into something that Delsin definitely doesn’t want to toy with. Sadly though, in the lull of strangely comfortable silence, the barista remembers this guy has a job, and he has a job. And they’re both on the clock. “ I should let you get back.” 

“Hang on, I got something for you,” The florist reaches inside the truck, hands cupped to protect a delicate white flower, keeping his hand over the petals until Delsin takes it, doing the same thing. The barista laughs this time, bringing it close to his face to feel the petals just barely brush his nose, meeting the other’s eyes with a quiet question. 

“Again? I thought that was just a first time customer thing.” 

“Wallflowers are, I never said anything about Camellias.” Desmond opens the truck door, only to lean against it and watch the barista gently twirl the single flower. Recalling the meaning of the soft and pretty bundle of flowers still in his kitchen.

“What do Camellias mean, then?” 

There were alot of things Delsin was prepared for as an answer; something simple like innocence, charm, a singular word that he’d again be impressed the other knew, and took so much time to understand. But nothing could prepare him for the hot flush that spreads over his face, his neck, his everywhere when Desmond’s mouth ticks up into a smirk. 

“You’re adorable.”

 

Delsin’s pencil runs lightly across the off-white paper of his sketchbook, the delicate curve of the flowers’ petals slowly but surely coming to life as he shades. It was one of those rare days off again, the constant rain of Seattle once again leaving behind a cocoon of peace. And a reason to stay in bed. It was too early in the morning for him to be up, but he couldn't sleep, not with his mind on the new arrangement that would be awaiting in the cute little shop not far away.

With it, embroidered flowers and a bright smile that put some of the plants to shame.

It sometimes felt like something out of a novel, when he thought about it too hard. After the second gift, Desmond had become near shameless. The barely there air of professionalism in their relationship melted away, and the artist would come by knowing damn well his arrangements weren’t ready. Only to end up leaning against the counter making “goo-goo” eyes, as Shaun had said in exasperation the first time catching them flirting.

Flirting. He was flirting with Desmond, an odd but effortless word to tack onto the way they get to know each other. Light, normal teasing that exposes a lot about one another in the same breadth.

He tells Desmond all about being an art student, about his brother and home and life in general.

The other tells him about how he became the head florist, about New York and how much more he likes working with flowers instead of alcohol. He likes watching him work; the care he puts into each piece, the content in his posture and low hums, soft and quiet and clashing with the bright and bold colors of his tattoos. He likes his smile, his soft laugh and love for his job.

He knows it’s obvious, with the playful smirks Fetch sends him when he looks like he’s on cloud nine just after joking and laughing with the floral manager. The way Augustine’s demands and comments slide off his back like water. He can’t help it, no matter how much he tries.

Delsin likes him. Really,  _ really  _ likes him. 

It’s why, naturally when Desmond out of the blue says, “Hey, come upstairs with me,” A lot of not very innocent images pop into his head before anything logical. He knows now that the florist lives above the shop, a part of his long time agreement with Shaun’s parents that the heir didn’t bother contesting. Why would he when virtually the perfect worker/manager is a knock away? 

“Alright,” He hesitates as Desmond flips the intricate wooden sign to the “closed” side, apron abandoned to hang by the front desk, ignoring the thudding in his chest. 

The stairs are about as old as the building themself, groaning and creaking under their weight, but not giving into it. The space is tight, enclosed with white walls until they hit the quarter turn, a door with an empty gold plate that Desmond swiftly explains is the office as they continue on. 

“So question,” The other says after a comfortable amount of silence, twisting to send Delsin a teasing smile that throws the barista back into the gutter, then confusion, “You wanna take the normal way or the fun way?”

“Uh, fun way?”

“Fun way it is.”

They stop at a door, drill holes and faded wood where perhaps a number rested, the florist’s key slotting perfectly into the hole and the door opening easily for him and, oh shit, this is Desmond’s apartment.

It’s cozy. Not as cute as the shop itself, but well decorated in the sense that obviously someone lives here and is comfortable. He tries not to pry too much, eyes skirting around to things like the open kitchen, abandoned shoes at the door and a blanket draped over a beaten to hell leather couch.

The real nail in the coffin, is a ball of white fur that appears out of nowhere and proceeds to follow Desmond through the apartment, squeaking in earnest.

“It’s not food time yet, baby girl.”

“You have a  _ cat _ ?”

Desmond doesn’t break his stride when he glances back, grin all teeth and amusement.

“Surprised?”

“You could say that...what are you doing?” The punk watches the other open the window across his living space, as wide as the old springs and glass will go before he plants his hands firmly on the wood.

“Taking the fun way.” Delsin has no choice but to follow, snorting quietly to himself as both he and Desmond maneuver through his window onto the metal grates of the fire escape, where they start to ascend.

“I feel like this is the part I should question where you’re taking me,” The artist jokes lightly, listening to the metallic impact of their footsteps as they go up, up. The building itself isn’t many floors, maybe three, maybe four compared to the massive scales newer buildings can be, but there’s something more fun, more dangerous about trailing the fire escape. Fall in Seattle is a constant barrage of rain and clouds, Desmond sending a short warning to watch his step on the slick metal steps, but not much more is sais as they go.

“Up we go.” He grunts, climbing up a short ladder that takes them of all places, the roof. And on the roof, is a massive glass...thing. No, a greenhouse, Delsin gathers as Desmond takes his wrist to lift him upwards, giving him a full view of the quaint little house atop the building’s rooftop. 

“Whoa, is that--”

“Ours? Yeah, we grow local plants here. You know, those leaves and stuff that come in bouquets besides flowers. Wanna go inside?” Uh, duh. He’s never been in a greenhouse before, watching in a muted enthusiasm as Desmond unlocks the also glass door, opening it to release a wave of fresh, green air. 

If the shop is jam packed of plant life, this place is full to the brim. Every corner has a planters box, ferns and other overflowing flowers hanging overhead in a big wall of life, the barista letting his neck crane upwards to stare at the gray sky in the transparent ceiling. 

“Whoa,” 

“Nice, huh?” Uh,  _ yeah _ . The place was something out of a story book, the grayness of the sky making the soft yellows and whites of native flowers splash against the varying shades of green in every direction. It’s beautiful, and Delsin can only stand in the center of with a strange, moving sensation in his chest. 

“This is gorgeous.” Desmond smile is soft, his eyes straying from the other to move over the space with a more familiar sense of awe and wonder.

“Thank Rebecca, our grower. This place is her baby...well, besides another type of plant.” A side eye, and Delsin can’t help himself but snort in a startled sort of amusement. 

“It’s legal isn’t it? no harm done.”

“Took the words right out of my mouth. Come on, I wanna show you some of my favorites.” The florist reaches out as he passes, gently clasping Delsin’s wrist and tugging him deeper into the greenhouse. It doesn’t go far, but where it seems there’s a wall of plants, Desmond slips to the side and there’s a whole other shelf of vegetation awaiting more care.

“Here, look.” They stop at a small planter’s box full of small, delicate flowers with vibrant yellow centers, much like everything else in the space, thriving with vigor thanks to TLC. And there’s so many, some soft, pale purples, other vibrant yellows and a few rare pink.  They were no doubt, beautiful, Delsin watching as Desmond gently, so gently, picks one of the dozens and twirls it between his fingers. Not a moment later, the tiny plan in his hand, the artist unable to fight his flattered smile. 

“What’s this one?” It was always so baffling how the other could seem to name off each flower Delsin ever pointed out, effortless and sure of himself, like a man who wanted nothing more to know the information just to have.

“African white violet. They grow really well here, funnily enough.”

“And what does it mean?” 

“It means,” A hand brushes over his back, barely there and sending jolts down his spine. He meets the florist’s eyes, warm and golden and. Nervous. A moment’s hesitation. “Let’s take a chance.” 

Oh.  _ Oh _ . “Oh.”  All the flirting, all the smiles and teasing comes to his mind. The flower back at the shop, now sadly long gone but the words still echoing in the other’s mind like a soft mantra. The foundations of attraction, slow growing but clear as day. Sweet and tentative, overflowing in the hesitance of Desmond’s eyes, in the gentle fingers digging into his back, and Delsin can feel a certain type shiver coming.

“Would you want to grab dinner sometime?” 

“Yes! Yeah, I mean, I’d really like that.” Delsin almost drops the delicate little flower in his daze, feeling another hot flush crawl across his face when Desmond smiles so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners. 

“Great.”

 

Reggie looks ten different kinds of frazzled, pacing in place, a familiar habit of his that means if he sits still for even a minute he’ll explode in a 200 pound mass of anxiety. His face is glued to his phone, tapping at a rate he struggled to obtain the first time they got smartphones.

“Whoa, Reg. Where’s the fire?” The older of the two turns like he forgot he was meeting Delsin for lunch, and the way he looks around he wonders if the teacher forgot where he was. 

“The florist just flopped our whole order for the wedding, they’re having an owner dispute and backed out.” What?! Oh shit, “And I can’t find another one for the same price willing to do fifteen sets and Lucy’s bouquet in two weeks, it’s too tight of a window, and I’ve got to call and confirm with the venue, and Lucy’s dad keeps complaining that it’s on the beach, and a kid threw up in the classroom today--”  oop, there it is. A ringed hand rakes through his brother’s usually well kept hair, ruining the careful comb back as he continues to rattle off all the things coming to fruition. His moment of being stationary is over as he starts the pacing he probably didn’t even realize he was doing in the first place. 

“Reg, hey, one thing at a time, man. You’re gonna give yourself another ulcer.” Reggie stops, blinks, and takes an easing breath that seems to hold enough weight to crush a normal person’s shoulders. To be fair, he and his fiancee have been planning this for a long time. It’s not a big wedding, but they put a lot of thought into making it nice for both the tribe and Lucy’s side of the family. He doesn’t know why his brother, the man whose content with plain colors and plaid, would agree to the idea to planning their wedding themselves. 

“I’m good. I’m calm.” Lies, but Delsin will work with what he’s got. 

“What kind of flowers did you guys have?”

“Uh--carnations, hydrangeas, and--I don’t know, I can’t remember the other one, but it was kind of big. Her mom was in charge of this part,” His brain starts jumping, calculating the amount of time, raising a finger to shake in consideration.

“Are you willing for it to not be those?”

“Del, I will take dandelions, I do not care right now.”

“What’s your budget?” Reggie tells him, and yes, yes. He’s got a plan. 

“I think I know someone.” His excitement gets ahold of him, hopping once backwards, remembering he had plans with his very panicked brother and points. “Let’s reschedule, I’ll call you! Go home, or--class, just sit somewhere with a cup of tea! Think happy thoughts, remember, you’re getting married!” 

He practically busts into Thistle, Desmond looking up from paperwork to send him an overjoyed smile. 

“Hey,” He says, practically melting when Delsin leans over the desk/counter space to kiss him in greeting. It’s crazy thinking that they’ve been doing this whole “dating” thing a good four months; that Des’ cat likes him, that when people ask him where he’s going he can joyfully and oh so casually so, “Oh, my boyfriends’, you know how it is.” He can only hope he’s not overstepping with what he’s about to ask

“Hey, so I have like, the hugest favor to ask.” 

“Uh oh,” The florist starts lightheartedly, his hands clasped in front of him as he peers up at Delsin with the sweetest look, it almost makes things go out the window in favor of kissing him. “How huge?”

“Like, can you save my brother’s wedding, huge.” Desmond’s expression morphs into shock, straightening in his seat. Delsin had long ago told the other about how his brother was getting married, all the sappy joy he feels about the older sibling finding someone that fit him like a glove, so on and so forth, but he hadn’t brought it up since then.

“Oh shit, what happened?” 

“Their florist bailed, and he can’t find anyone to do something so short notice and it’s totally cool if you can’t, it’s usually just you and Becs here, but he’s working himself into a state and you guys are in my personal opinion the best--” 

“How short of notice?”

“Two weeks, the twelfth.” 

“What’s he wanting?”

“At this point, anything.” 

“Budget?” Delsin tells him, and Desmond has that considering look that means he’s doing math in his head, visualizing what he can do with said math and how much farther he could take it. 

“I’ll do it.” Delsin seizes picking up from his nervous rambling, gaping at his boyfriend for a solid two seconds before coming around the counter to almost tackle the other out of his chair, peppering kisses everywhere he can reach, until Desmond is laughing. 

“You’re an angel! Oh my god, you’re the best! I’ll buy you all the Thai you want, I swear,”

Des has that pleasant pink on his face, unable to look the barista in the eye when he gets flustered and instead looking at the papers on his desk/counter.

“You don’t have to do that, babe. It’s no big deal.” It’s way more than a big deal, he’s literally asking the florist and more than likely the few others of the shop, to provide flowers for his brother’s wedding. The wedding Delsin is attending. 

“Then,” He starts, linking his fingers behind Desmond’s neck to lean in close, still loving the minute way the other’s eyes widen just a smidge under the attention. That was probably the best discovery of this, was figuring out Mr. Tattoo’s and piercings was actually a big dork that flushed under his attention. “How about being my plus one?” 

A moment of stillness, feeling the tension that shows up in the other’s shoulders fade away as he grins. “Can the florist even be invited to the wedding?” 

“Maybe not, but if my boyfriend happens to be the florist, who’s to say I can’t invite my boyfriend?” 

“Fair enough...yeah, I’m down.”

“Good.”

 

Delsin watches with a grin so wide it hurts as his brother gets cake shoved in his face, trying and failing to get his fia--sorry, wife in retaliation. The longhouse goes into a roar of cheers and laughs, the excitement melting into an air of easy enjoyment that turns into a lull of conversation over soft music. The wedding had been driving everyone up the wall in the final hours, fussing with ties (thankfully no suit jackets, Reggie’s insistence), hair, and keeping his brother from rushing out onto the assigned path and rushing through the vows to be with the woman he asked to marry him. 

But it all had come to a final, beautiful day that leaves the artist tired, but satisfied. Eyes roam over the room, coming to one of the event tables turned group seating and settling on the arrangement sitting innocently in the center. Des had worked hard and fast to come up with something tasteful for a spring wedding, and he delivered. Vibrant, yellow cinquefoils sat in a circle inside a tinted mason jar, alongside peony’s that are a soft, gradient pink. And finally, daffodils, joined with twigs in a careful arrangement that’s meant to embody the beauty of spring, and of course the happiness the newlywed couple feels.

Lucy loved them even more than their first set, and it had been entertaining to watch his boyfriend flush in a flattered, but unnerved manner at the praise he got from every direction, stuttering out that it wasn’t that big of a deal.

“Hide me,” Speak of the devil, the man’s hands glide over his hips, trying and failing to hide behind the barista with desperation in his voice. “I’ve gotten so many business card requests, and one lady asked me for planting advice.” 

Delsin has to laugh, twisting and turning until he gets the tie of his boyfriend’s vested suit, pulling him to an awkward angle to land a kiss on his jaw. “That must be so hard for you, I’m sorry.” He earns a grumble for his sarcasm, being pulled into the florist’s front as they both watch the dancing and laughing around them. “Thank you, though. Seriously.” 

“How many times are you going to thank me? Your brother paid me, remember?”

“Oh I know, but I’ll still thank you, since I used my charm and wit to make you say yes.” 

“Uh huh, we’ll say that’s what it was.” They sit in comfortable silence, Desmond’s hand warm and familiar on his front. 

“They really are beautiful, you and Becca did a great job.” Without knowing a single thing about the wedding besides the theme, they really did nail the warmth, yet softness of spring. He knows, though Des will deny it, that they were up late completing arrangements, that he’s certain his partner “I like the daffodils a lot.” A thoughtful hum, Desmond’s cheek pressing to his, and Delsin couldn’t stop his smile if he tried when the other pulls him closer, flush to his front.

“Up for another fun fact?” The shorter’s starting to get the distinct impression that this is 100% the man’s way of flirting, setting his hands on top of his boyfriends as he stares off into the crowd. He catches his brother, who he’s going to make a toast for soon, who is pressing his forehead to his wife’s like there are very few things that rival it.

And. With his partner’s hands and arms around him, he dares to do something he never thought he’d do.

Wonder if that could be them. 

“Hit me.”

“They mean,” Desmond’s rocks, swaying them both lazily, “desire, desire for affection.” Warmth blooms across his chest, crawls to his stomach and settles at his core, leaving behind a sensation Delsin hopes never goes away. 

“I think that can be arranged.”

 

It’s exactly 8:21 P.M when Delsin walks into the dimmed interior of Thistle, the string lights the only source of light and illuminating the controlled chaos of the shop. Familiarity and comfort settles into the barista’s chest, sighing in relief from the break from the rain. Shaun and Rebecca respectively peer up from where they’re sharing words over the desk, not at all surprised to see him at this point.  The grower giving him a gleeful smile in greeting, the shop owner giving a much more muted acknowledgement in the form of a nod. They both notice his eyes trailing over the shop, two seperate sets of index fingers pointing in the direction of the stairs.

“Upstairs.” 

The stairs still creek and groan in objection from his weight, passing the office without a glance and heading for the door that has long lost its apartment number. The door is unlocked when he pushes against it, the apartment shrouded in near darkness. The small bit he can see is the same as it’s always been, as it had been so long ago minus little details like his brother’s wedding picture, extra pairs of shoes at the door, and the blanket stretched across the couch from use the previous night. It’s home.

“Des? I’m home.” A ball of fluff moves in the dark, the jingle of her little bell and her eager squeaks pulling a smile out of the artist, watching her twirl and rub against his legs with low purrs. But no boyfriend, raising his head to search and--

There, on Desmond’s--their-- little dining table, illuminated by just a couple of candles rests a mass of red. The closer the barista gets, the clearer the image becomes, and stronger does the rising sense of affection and surprise take confusion’s. A dozen roses, carefully and lovingly clipped and dethorned, tied elegantly with a thin piece of white ribbon. A short huff of a sound escapes Delsin, trailing a finger delicately across the smooth texture of one of the flowers, feeling himself start to smile. It only grows when he finds the small card beside it, his partner’s messy scrawl reading out,

_ Wanna know what roses mean?  _

This one, Delsin knows, biting his lip to conceal his grin as hands settle warmly on his hips, a steady presence pressing into his back. He melts into the kiss behind his ear, closing his eyes as lips trail along to murmur, 

“I love you.”

**Author's Note:**

> SURPRISE  
> This is the thing I had hinted at the other day when I updated EA. This thing.....has been sitting a while. A mix of it beig because it's so long, me obviously going to college, and me just really wanting to get it right...like most things kdfjdf  
> My lovely editor n chief helped me out (did all the googling, and advising, etc.) and I felt it was time to post this!
> 
> I loved working on this, I love these sort of AU's and getting all the good gushy stuff >:3c  
> Hope you all enjoy it! Have good weekends!


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